


Desperation

by MischiefMakerMaiden



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefMakerMaiden/pseuds/MischiefMakerMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within a world of madness, Bruce (Batman, vigilante, hero, villain, everything, nothing at all) struggles to grab hold of his humanity. Who is he, really? With the Joker in his mind, whispering petty lies, the billionaire fails to remember why he cares at all.</p><p>"Who am I then? If I'm not Batman, if I'm not me—"<br/>"Oh, Brucie, dear. Isn't it obvious? You're... Well... You're mine!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

Bruce isn't sure when it started. When the endless nights had ended and the endless days begun. When he started being backwards, all semblance of sanity being ripped away slowly, like pieces of his suit being pulled away by green nails and a tainted smile.

He isn't sure when, if ever, he'd turned into that which he sought never be; perhaps he'd been this malevolent creature since the birth of Batman, in that dark alley which had sealed his fate.

He's sure of the skin below him, though, sure of the aggravating scratches on his back. He's sure of the rough lips against his own, of the grounding gravity that made up Joker's legs around his hips.

Batman had been tainted, Bruce knows, corrupted by madness. A symbol does not feel, it does not fuck in a back alley, it is not tender. Wisps of Bruce had seeped into the vigilante, tainting like a deadly poison wherever they had landed.

The clown had succeeded.

With his hand enveloped around a weeping cock, dick slamming into a tight heat: Bruce decided that he didn't mind.

But Batman did. The feral beast slammed against its cage. Snarled, grabbed, tore. It cried for justice, fairness, purity. Sadly, Joker laughed louder than Batman cried, he fought harder than Batman possibly could.

It was a stalemate at its best, this fight, it wasn't righteousness against madness anymore, it was Bruce against Batman.

But the vigilante had nobody on his side, old allies now dead and gone, nothing left but bones and pain. Bruce had Joker, nothing more. That was enough. The Bat had the will of the dead, Bruce that of the mad. He couldn't win, neither of them could.

Joker's voice against his ear rings, reminds him of all this and more.

As they lay intertwined upon a ratty old mattress, the clown murmurs pretty words embedded with mirth: crafting a story so ideal, Bruce's ghosts disappear and leave nothing behind.

"Have you ever had it when everything about you— everything, my dear, absolutely everything— was lost within someone else? When the dance of madness becomes so eloquently complex that it loses its meaning? I think you have, Batsy," it is weird, Bruce knows, that Joker never addresses him by his real name even though he'd learned it a long time ago. They both prefer it that way. "Because I melt in your arms and you melt within mine and we become a big mush of incoherent thoughts. You hear that? Oh, it's marvelous. I've always known you'd look oh-so-pretty around me. But it's hard. It becomes too much, I know. Let's start over, Bats!" Joker urges, coming to a close. "This is complicated, and don't get me wrong, I do love it, but it'll get tiring, dear. Tomorrow, I'll be the damsel in distress! The pretty princess! I'll be captured by the big bad guy, and you can save me..."

The clown keeps going, talking and talking about what they'll do tomorrow. He never speaks of anything further than that, but why do so? There would be no point.

As Joker jokes about being a beautiful ballerina, Bruce's mind wanders off.

In his stillness, he realizes that is is how Harleen must have fallen for Joker. It would be easy to let go now, to give in to the madness of such promises, which are so well crafted they leave a warmth in Bruce's belly.

He holds on a little tighter to the lithe body around his own.

Batman himself is appeased, calm at the fact that with these play-pretend stories, nobody but Bruce can be hurt.

But it does not hurt, Bruce wants to admit. It's not a clever answer, because below the web of lies is a spider; this will not last forever.

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

He'll take it while it lasts.

* * *

 

 

 It breaks weeks after. Well, it does not break as much as the fractures deepen within the strange house of mirrors their relationship has become. The fractures run deeper than the lies Bruce has fallen for, the ones he knows are going to kill him one day.

Bruce is Batman, cape billowing behind him as he waits for the moment in which the man below him tries to assault someone. Except, as Batman, he's still Bruce, because he does not think only of justice, he thinks also of Joker and how much that man has changed him.

It's agonizing, like his mind is ripping itself apart.

He's so distracted he almost misses the robber's move as he grabs hold of a woman, pulls her to his chest and threatens her with a hidden gun.

Bruce is about to leap to action when a voice in his comm startles him.

"Batsy, dear! Lovely to hear from you! I'm at your... Place, sweetums. Now, I can see what you're seeing, and let me tell you something: that woman has _had_. It. _Coming_."

"Shut up," Batman replies fiercely, bending his knees.

He jumps off the building seconds too late.

The hesitation is shadowed by an echoing gunshot.

The woman falls to the street with a short screech, as though her throat had yet to realize what has happened. She is dead.

He doesn't realize it until his fist is bleeding from the shattered pieces of his gauntlet digging into it, but he's growling much too loud to sound human, beating the man (murderer, beastly murderer) below him to a bloody pulp.

" _Joker_!" He seems to be yelling, because why, why, _why_? The man below him is pleading, begging for him to stop. But his teeth are broken, tongue too inflated to move. Batman (not Batman, he concedes, this was all Bruce) is fairly sure he's trying to articulate "I'm not Joker!"

"Oops!" Giggles Joker, back to taunt him. "I didn't mean for that to happen!" He sounds bashful, at least.

Bruce delivers one last punch, anger towards his victim being reeled in and redirected.

"Oh, no, don't stop now, _Brucie_." That name makes him freeze.

He's never said that before. This alien dance... He glances at the criminal, bleeding from all places, bruised and battered... It's much too hard.

He remembers Joker's words from weeks before, warm and teasing. Maybe tomorrow Joker can play the princess. A dance that's anything but this, his mind begs.

Bruce is lost.

"Come home!" The Joker urges, teasing in a way much too sensual to be malevolent. He's done his wicked deed of the day, now the clown comes to play.

Bruce calls the police and an ambulance, escaping the alley as soon as he hears sirens.

He heads towards the Batcave. Only now he isn't Bruce, now he's Batman: All coiled anger and righteous fury out of its container.

The Bat calls for blood, Bruce knows, but he does not care.

This is just another step within Joker's elaborate dance.

* * *

 

Batman reaches the Batcave with steady strides, head forward, mind blank. The walls go by him, dark and gloomy.

"Joker," he calls, voice even.

It is anger that contains every other feeling.

"Dear!" The high-pitched voice rings back. Batman follows the sound to the Batcomputer.

The first thing he sees is Joker watching himself on the screen. In turn, the image is repeated over and over. It's a sickening sort of inception. The Joker has somehow managed to hack the computer as well as the camera within the cowl. He's turned away from Batman, all that is visible is a full shock of green hair and a purple-clad back.

Hate for the malevolent creature he sees in his home envelops him. Batman doesn't know how Bruce could place his hands upon that smiling skeleton that thrives upon death.

"That was some reckless driving you were doing, Brucey!" The voice rings.

"Shut up." He says without inflection, watching as the clown swivels the chair and turns to face him fully. His smile has vanished, and as he opens his mouth, his tone is desolate and blank.

"Oh, it's you, Bats." Batman hears the disappointment clear as day.

"Expecting someone else, clown?"

He moves forward, steadily coming closer to the madman, looming over him, frown deep underneath his mask.

"I was _done_ playing with _you_. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get Brucie to come out and play? Then you had to go and ruin my fun, Bats!"

There's a pout upon those blood-red lips. Batman doesn't hesitate to punch it away. Then he punches again, over and over until he fractures Joker's nose, swiping at his chest with the knives upon his gauntlet, tearing open tender skin.

The clown doesn't even twitch away. He giggles until he chokes on blood, and then he gargles ugly chuckles around it. He doesn't complain when he's thrown upon the ground, when Batman is over him, taking and taking until there's so much pouring out, the floor is a mess of blood and dirt.

"I _hate_ you," Batman says at last, once his arms are too tired to keep going. He's straddling the madman, trapping him in place.

"No, Bats, you _love_ me."

It doesn't even make any sense, the way the Joker thinks. It's unending madness.

"This that you've done, see here?" The clown spits out some blood, "all little love bites from my dear little Bats."

"You don't know love," Batman replies, only the anger is gone now. All that remains is a mix between the vigilante and Bruce Wayne.

"I know love plenty, dear. You make my heart beat with it!" The Joker smiles a bloody smile, "every punch, every kick, every evil scheme... It's all for you!"

He really believes that, doesn't he?

"You're gonna break him, you know?" Batman says as a way of goodbye. After tonight, he will be no more. This is how he loses the fight.

"Oh, I'm counting on it, Batsy, dear. I've already broken you!"

"I know, I know," The Bat replies, slumping over and rolling off the clown.

A soft laugh follows.

"It's been fun having you around, ya' know?"

"I'm still here," he says. He is fading.

Upon a pool of Joker's blood, he is about to die.

"Oh, I don't think so, Bats. This is goodbye, old friend... It's been a load of laughs."Joker sounds gleeful.

Batman closes his eyes. Maybe the Joker's right.

But the fun is over now.

No more justice for Gotham. No more Bat for the Clown.

The Batman dies with a laugh, fading voice in tandem with the Joker's own.

The madman has won once again.

 

* * *

 

 Later that night, in a pool of blood, lying side by side, Joker turns to face him.

"I've driven you mad," Joker says gleefully, smiling wide and proud, as though he'd accomplished some grandiose feat.

Bruce doesn't know who "you" implies. Batman is gone, so is the Bruce he used to be. This weird breed that remains is much too human to protect anyone, too full of hate to be peaceful.

"I'm sane enough," he responds, though it's steady and honest-sounding, Bruce isn't too sure himself.

"Tut, tut, dear!"

"I'm sorry about the beating," Bruce (not Bruce anymore, is he?) says, though he kinda isn't.

"No you're not, Brucie."

They stay silent for the rest of the night.

Bruce drifts off hours later.

Once he wakes up, he is alone.

 

* * *

 

 There is a slow drift in time, one which is broken into fragments and heartbreak, in which Joker is completely absent.

There is a void inside of Not-Bruce which quite plainly explains the fact that, no, he probably won't ever be coming back.

But time doesn't care for heartbreak— it transcends all things. One morning blurs into the next, one night to a whole month.

Bruce stays in the manor. He does not go out at night, nor party during the afternoons. He mopes around, gladly avoiding any semblance of the life he'd called his own, once upon a time.

He is well and truly broken.

One morning, he glances at his befallen face upon the mirror, frowns, and goes back to bed.

The pain within him is numbing.

It burns the world away, taking over every living thought.

The absence of a loved one.

Time runs its course; Not-Bruce, however, does not.

 

* * *

 

 The way it had started had been a long cry from the tragic end, Not-Bruce knows.

It had been during the night, Batman had gone out, eyes blazing with excitement. He had escaped the Batcave with news of Joker sightings.

"Be careful, Master Bruce," Alfred had told him, ordering him, more like.

"I'll try my best, Alfred," he had responded carelessly, jumping into the Batmobile and driving away.

The chase had started in the Diamond District, with Joker cackling amicably, twisting and running away from Batman. They danced around Buntley, pushed and pulled through the Pioneer's Bridge, struggled past the Narrows.

In a way, Batman had been excited about the whole ordeal, usual distaste dissipated beneath a layer of adrenaline.

They had stopped at an old park, near the heart of Old Gotham.

Joker stood atop a flowing fountain, rivulets of water drip-dropping from a lick of his hair; this implied he'd waded into the water, across the little dome of water that spouted from the top. The wind blew slightly, casting a glorious air about the clown. His green eyes shone, wide smile softened by the moonlight.

It was satisfying to say that Bruce hadn't been the one to notice it first. With all of his righteous upstanding, Batman had been the first to fall from his pedestal. As the Bat watched from a few steps away, on the opposite side of that round fountain, he'd realized just how beautiful the clown looked.

"Finally caught up to me, did 'ya, Bats?" Joker asked teasingly, going to the balls of his feet, fidgeting slightly, as though itching to keep on running.

Batman didn't answer: he was speechless. Joker didn't take it as such.

"Upset, are you?" His laugh accentuated his words, stretching out the last syllable of the sentence. The clown moved slowly closer, placing one foot in front of the other as he balanced around the thick ledge of the fountain.

In the end, he stood, towering feet over Batman's head.

"Oh, c'mon, _Bats_! Heh— Bat eat your tongue?"

Batman shook it off, tilting his head minimally, trying to return to himself.

"Let's go, Joker. You haven't killed anyone tonight: I intend to keep it that way."

"Oh, so worried about little old _me_? Don't worry, dear," he paused, flopping onto the concrete edge of the fountain, sitting at eye level with Batman. His face soured for a second, as though the force of impact once he landed on his ass hadn't even crossed his mind. "I'm not killing anyone tonight!"

His wide smile returned.

"I've still got to take you to Arkham."

"Oh, _why_ must you complicate everything, Batsy?" The vigilante moved closer, two steps and he stood in front of the clown. Inches separated them.

"Cooperate."

"Nope. Do you know why I brought you here, darling?" Joker leaned forwards, lowering his voice to a rough pitch, "you see, it's _our_ anniversary— don't worry, I won't hold it against you that you forgot!— and I just wanted to bring _you_ to the prettiest place in Gotham to celebrate!"

Batman remembered though, it had been five years since the Joker had become the Joker.

"I'm here," he said, twitching to punch Joker in the face.

"Yes, but before you do the honors, let me..." Quick as lighting, the Joker snapped forwards. Pressing warm lips to Batman's own, chapped edges contouring his mouth. It lasted less than a second, no more than a rough peck to arouse ire.

That's not what it brought, though. The transition was seamless between Bruce and Batman. Suddenly, the vigilante was gone, his domain shattered by the press of a rough mouth; in his stead was Bruce, sharp eyes staring at Joker's face as it pulled away, muddled mind chasing after more.

"Go ahe—" Joker was interrupted by Bruce's lips.

It was rough and demanding, pushing the Joker backwards with such force that he almost toppled into the water. The clown's mouth was slack for less than a second, though, surprise quickly overshadowed by mirthful lust.

Bruce licked at moist lips, nipped when he could, pulling and tugging with a ferocious want. Joker wasn't far behind.The man kissed with the graceless lack of coordination that only he possessed, warm and sloppy.

Bruce loved it.

He trapped his arms around Joker, one hand cradling the base of his skull, the other around his slim waist. The clown moaned at the roughness of Bruce's gauntlets.

He wanted more, more, _more_.

But first, he needed to breathe.

He pulled away, trail of saliva connecting them until the clown used the tip of his tongue to lick it away. Bruce took that moment to stare at him.

Joker's eyes were wide, startled.

"Oh," the clown mused, as though astounded by the kiss.

The tenseness only lasted a few beats. It was broken as Bruce pulled forwards again, but met empty air. The clown had backed away forcefully, purposefully tumbling into the water.

"I'm going crazy!" Bruce heard. "Maybe that's not Bats... Nah, he couldn't have... Nope, nope." The words were whispered and desperate.

"Joker—"

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up!"

Bruce did. He watched as the clown miserably picked himself up.

"I'm gonna go now, and you're not gonna come after me, or I swear, I'll blow old Gotham to smithereens!" The voice started muted, but gradually increased with confidence.

Batman would have stopped the clown, ended the little boundary the clown had set.

Sadly, Bruce was the one in control.

He watched silently as the Joker drunkenly swayed away, strangely demure for a man who'd just gotten what he wanted.

Bruce hadn't followed.

 

* * *

 

Not-Bruce remembers.

Not much else to do, nowadays.

He remembers Joker's lips, ever-moving, ever-present, always tricking and lying, always smiling. There is a coiling tightness in his belly that details how much he misses those.

He remembers his body. Strong, yielding at times, though almost never. Joker's body was... A thing of beauty, to say the least, so flawed it became a miraculous thing, corded, taut, raw.

Not-Bruce remembers touching Joker, tracing his edges, thinking he'd never get cut. Playing with the fire that is Joker's fickle mind.

 _This_ is the burn. Painful, scorching, unforgiving, unyielding. Joker's "love," destructive in its own right. Deadly from the beginning, poisonous until the bitter end.

All those rounds of careless sex, of stolen kisses, of Kevlar against expensive suits. Gone. Gone. Gone.

What now?

The clown had left him for dead.

Broken and shattered what was before, tossing the pieces at empty space, then disappearing.

Joker, careless as ever, hadn't been there to catch and rebuild. Not like he _promised_.

Not-Bruce hurts.

He hurts so deep and bad, good _God_ somebody make it _stop_!

That's what _he_ comes back to.

A shaking Not-Bruce that can't stop sobbing, crumpled upon the ground, trembling, _dead_.

"Help," he wants to say, but cannot; no words can escape the rawness of his throat. His eyes are closed: slumped there, he does not realize that the source of his anguish has returned. Does not do so until purple-clad arms wrap around him, hold him together.

But once he realizes, he presses his face against Joker's neck, breathing in gunpowder and sugar. Settling, but not stopping the tears.

"Bats, baby," the voice keeps repeating, soothing for once.

Not-Bruce grabs tight and does not let go. Will he go again?

He has lost himself, he knows. There is nothing but Joker now. The only constant, without him... God. _No_. Anything but that emptiness which only now had been filled.

"Don't—" Bruce starts at one point, broken off by a sob. His face is still nestled among pale skin. He wants to command it, wants to shout it at the top of his lungs. It comes off a soft, questioning, broken thing.

"Not ever again, baby, not ever," Joker replies warmly, serious. He seems to understand that much, at least.

Impossibly, Not-Bruce holds him even tighter, arms wound about the clown straining with the force behind the hug. The clown does not complain. In fact, he seems pleased at the prospect of Not-Bruce needing him.

"Shhh," Joker whispers, "I'm here now, my Dark Knight."

They stay like that, then, for hours. Until morn comes, sweeping away the terrifying darkness. Not-Bruce is afraid of such things in a way Batman had never been. Vulnerable. Weak.

Once the first ray of sunlight rises above the horizon, Not-Bruce finds that the tears have run out, that the wracking sobs have found an end, that the weakness has been strengthened, he finds the courage to speak.

"I don't know who I am anymore," he mouths, it's like a breath that is finally being released. He's been holding it back for so long.

The clown replies after a beat. Some laughter is in his tone, as though such an admittance was somehow... Amusing.

"I know." Like he's been knowing since the first kiss.

"Who am I then? If I'm not Batman, if I'm not me—"

"Oh, Brucie, dear. Isn't it obvious? You're... Well... You're _mine_!"

A cold peace settles over him then.

Not-Bruce, much like Batman and Bruce before him, lets go.

He relaxes against the sleeping lion that is Joker, and he does not move until the clown tells him to.

He does not do a thing.

He is like a puppet now, strings tightly intertwined within Joker's firm fingers.

With this knowledge, also, he does not do a thing.

 

* * *

 

The second time it had happened, long ago, it seems now to Bruce (nothing left for him to call himself, really. He's already been torn down and built up and torn down and built up enough to know that it's the only thing he can call himself– or so Joker had told him– that's it, then. Bruce. Joker's Bruce) it had been sudden and surprising. It had been stepping into a hole he'd never be able to pull himself out of... Falling deeper and deeper with each touch, every kiss, every breathy giggle.

...But that isn't where he wants to go. Bruce remembers the second time. No room for thoughts in these old memories.

Batman had left the cave, suit in place, Bruce far away from him. He'd heard the news that Joker had once again appeared. He'd been... Apprehensive, to say the least. Not quite worried, because fear did not worry, but... Weary. Weary that Bruce would come forth again, do something _human_ while in Batman's domain. Like he'd done while kissing the clown. Like he'd done by _desiring_.

He'd done well to be weary, because the second Batman set his dark eyes upon Joker's clear figure, Bruce had surged from within so suddenly, vertigo overcame them. A short fight had ensued in his psyche. Bruce had won, obviously, surprise on his side, also a feral desire to be there. Perhaps it was the way the moonlight had reflected off Joker's hair through the warehouse's window, or perhaps the way the clown looked... Baffled by Batman's appearance, or the way he'd licked his lips while he looked steadily at the vigilante. Whatever it was, Bruce had been consumed by a desire strong enough to make him fight Batman. Strong enough to _beat_ him.

The second Bruce opened his eyes again, like laser pointers, his sight had focused entirely on Joker, his purple jacket, his purple gloves, his full shock of green hair, tussled as usual.

By God, Bruce wanted to touch him.

"Last time," Joker started, his voice wasn't amused, it was even, calm. That was a first. "Last time, you kissed me, Bats. Why did you kiss me?"

"You kissed me first," Bruce had replied. He'd stepped forwards, watched as Joker took a single pace back to match his own.

"Did I, now?" Curious, confused.

Another step forward: this time, the clown hadn't retreated.

"You did, Joker."

Step.

"Yes... I suppose I did." More confused nervousness.

"What now?" Bruce breathed, by then, the clown was within arms' reach.

Step.

"Get away." Scared, commanding.

"No."

One of Joker's eyebrows twitched. His eyes shone with something unlike the usual madness. Fear?

"You're complicating things, Bats." Pause. "You can't get out of this one, Sweetums."

Step.

"I know." A breath. So close, he could see every dip of Joker's chalk white skin. So beautiful. Bruce raised his hand, gauntlet covered as it was, and placed it upon Joker's cheek, caressing softly. Letting Joker _know_.

A sharp intake of breath (not Bruce's, Joker's. Glorious. More. More. More).

Suddenly, it was over. Over in the best way.

Joker was everywhere. Desperate, shaking, disparate. His nails scratching, catching onto edges of the Batsuit, pulling at them. His lips, warm, rough: those pressed forwards until they made contact with Bruce's cheek, mouthing desperate words that made no sense at all.

Bruce returned every scratch with a caress, every word with a kiss. Violence against softness, their usual battle in a different form. So distorted, it was almost unrecognizable.

Bruce cradled the madman within his arms, clutching tight.

Somehow, they'd ended up naked, on the floor, fucking like beasts on the filthy ground, Joker crying out for more, Bruce giving and giving.

Afterwards, Joker had kissed him hard, whispered sweet nothings for a few minutes, then disappeared into the night.

But that was only the first time.

Quickly enough, it had delved out of control.

Dark alleys, abandoned homes, empty banks, _Arkham_.

Always and always, them, seeking each other out.

Though... It had shifted. Bruce giving so much, he'd lost himself, Joker receiving it in equal quantities, not knowing what to do with such unfunny things.

Lost, the both of them. Drowning.

Joker didn't seem to mind; that was the kind of madness that appealed to him.

Now, there was only pain.

 

* * *

 

 The true end.

It comes with fury, destroying all.

"Gotham falls," Joker whispers.

He's behind Bruce (Not-Bruce, Batman, Brucie, Bats, what was and what isn't, what, what, what?), head on his shoulder, arms trapping Bruce in place. They stare out the window, passively watching the criminals about the streets. It has been months since Batman died. Crime thrives.

Bruce doesn't care.

"Yes."

"It falls... Down, down, down. Where's your anger, my Dark Knight?" There's disappointment in his voice, so clear and loud, it almost makes him flinch. There is a lurch within Bruce's chest, hints of feelings trying to rise.

He's too broken to let them surge, so he suppresses them until there's nothing left but love for Joker.

Madness, truly. He's become worse than Harleen. Killed by Joker, hadn't she been?

Bruce remembers being happy. He doesn't know why. Perhaps it was that.

"Boring." There. A death sentence.

"What else could you want?" He's not angry.

"I broke you."

"It's what you wanted."

"No, I broke you too _much_." There is no laughter. Anger, then. Anger directed at Bruce.

"Oh," Bruce says, it sound soft and weak even to his own ears.

"Who are you?" The question strikes fear into him. It isn't something he wishes to speak of.

"I... I—"

"Who _are_ you?!" He's ripped from Joker's arms, swiveled, pushed against the window.

It's the end.

He's alone, now.

"I don't _know_!" Bruce yells back. It's a mixture of everything he's ever been.

It _hurts_.

There's an ugly chuckle, mean and cold.

"You're not anything anymore, are you?"

It's a truth none of them wanted to face. A truth created by Joker's kisses.

A truth made true because of love.

This is what loving the great Joker felt like.

Agony.

But, Bruce conceded, it had been him who started it. He's the one to blame.

He had pushed the Joker, this is him pushing back.

"Nothing," Joker repeats. "It's time to go to sleep, dear."

There's a gun. He's not scared. He's not at peace. He understands.

Nothing.

That's what's left. Who he is.

Nothing at all.

Bereft of everything.

"I love you, Joker." He says, because at least there's that much to hold on to. The only thing that remains within Bruce after all else has been drained away. The words ring true, and they make Joker's grip become tighter upon his gun.

"I love you, too, Sweetums," Joker giggles. His eyes shine with determination.

Bruce knows it's the clown's madness. Take it before it takes you. Joker refuses to be overcome by affection. It's surprising he's lasted this long without setting the manor on fire.

"Goodbye," he says, because at least, this time Joker's absence from him won't be like the last. It won't be without parting words, cold and desolate. It'll be the opposite.

Joker can't leave him ever again. It's Bruce's turn, now.

A loud boom.

Then, nothing.

Nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

If the end had been painful, the second beginning was like a storm in a desert.

Grandiose; relieving but unexpected.

It had also been like an amputation: A removal of his mind as it had been pre-end.

Batman, however, chooses not to dwell upon such things. He watches over the city always now, catches criminals during the night, destroys their crime, obliterates any proof that they ever did harm. During the day, he sleeps, shrouded by shadows always, hidden upon a forgotten corner of the Batcave, plagued by nightmares.

He is the Batman once more.

No feelings, no room for error. A well-oiled machine that never fails at what it does.

Perhaps that had been Joker's plan all along, to take every human part of him and put it in himself, then end it (Batman never admits that the memory brings pain to his chest. Refuses to believe that he sleeps in darkness because he is too afraid of the light upstairs, of the dry blood left behind by brain matter and a shattered skull).

It had succeeded greatly.

Now, as Batman watches humanity beneath him, he sees it. Sees that he is now what Joker had always wanted him to be, strong, blank, _angry_.

Angry at the world, angry at the clown, who had tricked him.

Bruce had been ready to die. Not that Batman agrees now, but he acknowledges it, knows what Bruce thought would happen, what really did.

Maybe it had all been a joke from the beginning.

Either way.

 _Now_ he knows.

He knows exactly who he is.

Every painstaking part of who he's become, he can recall. Knows every thought that will come, every response, every boundary.

Batman through and through.

Though he cannot find peace in anything else, at least the is that.

Joker's legacy, his purpose.

It seemed pointless when Bruce had held his cooling corpse, kissing at dead lips. But now, it is nothing short of marvelously purposeful.

"Thank you," he tells the night sky. Addressing the dead one who once held who he was.

The darkness about him covers his shoulders, pulling him together. The coldness of his heart seals the seams in his soul.

This is it, then.

"Goodbye, Joker."

Last words of parting once again.

Batman laughs.

At least this much would always remain.

The promise of the night, the memory of his heart.

"It's been a load of laughs."


End file.
